


A Dark and Stormy Night

by bluebright_l



Series: Bedtime Stories [2]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Friendship, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-03
Updated: 2012-04-03
Packaged: 2017-11-03 00:15:22
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,522
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/374932
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluebright_l/pseuds/bluebright_l
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Shortly after coming to Winterfell, bb!Theon reads bb!Robb a scary story.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Dark and Stormy Night

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by a piece of artwork seen on Tumblr here: http://watermonster666.tumblr.com/post/20116971657/theon-tell-little-robb-a-horror-story

The storm was fiercer than any had been since Theon had come to the greenlands, _Winterfell, call it Winterfell_ , but nothing compared to Pyke. At Pyke, he had dashed across the bridge to the Bloody Keep in storms worse than this, he told himself. A hot little flame of pride licked at his heart, but sputtered, threatening to go out, when he remembered that nobody here cared. _Robb might...maybe._ The flame burned lower, but didn’t go out.  
  
He slipped out of bed, the stone floor still holding a trace of warmth from the now-dead fire, and pulled a shutter open. The wind and rain that rushed in put out the candle on his bedside table and immediately soaked his face. Theon didn’t mind...in fact, he stepped closer, pushing his face out of the window and into the fury of the storm, his eyes closing with a smile. It was almost like being at the prow of Dagmer’s _Foamdrinker_...  
  
“Theon?” The voice was barely discernible under the wind howling into the room, but Theon heard it, all the same. He pushed the shutter closed with a struggle before turning to the door. “What’re you _doing_?”  
  
The smaller, _though not by much, and him four years younger...,_ boy in the doorway was staring at him, blue eyes wide and disbelieving, a candle in one fist and a book tucked under his other arm. “What’re _you_ doing, Stark?” Theon grinned, despite the fact that not all the moisture on his face was from the rain. “Scared of a little storm?”  
  
The scowl that came across Robb’s face was fierce. “No!”  
  
Theon just raised his eyebrows at him, as Lady Stark did when she caught one of them, usually Theon, out in a lie. “No?”  
  
Robb scuffed his feet, looking down. “Old Nan told me a story about the Others tonight...I _told_ her I didn’t want a scary one, but she didn’t listen!” He looked up, and Theon could see he was close to tears himself, though they seemed to be more in frustration than anything else. “She’s supposed to _listen_ to me, I’m the future lord of Winterfell!”  
  
“And?” Theon said plainly. “I’m the future lord of Pyke, and nobody gives a damn what I say.” The curse word tasted good on his lips, so he said it again. On Pyke, nobody had cared if he cursed, but Lady Stark didn’t like it, and she was nicer to him than most anyone on Pyke had ever been, so he tried to be good, but Lady Stark wasn’t here right now. “You’re just a child, and nobody gives a damn. Besides, that old bat doesn’t listen to anyone, not even your father. One time I heard him tell her to check on the baby in the crib, and she went right down to the kitchens and shelled peas for half the day. She’s senile, that one.”  
  
Robb giggled briefly, before a look of concern came over his small face. “I think she’s going deaf. But did anyone ever go check on Sansa?”  
  
  
Robb loved his baby sister, Theon knew. Truth be told, Theon had a small measure of affection for the baby, with her dusting of soft, red hair and quiet giggles. She almost never cried, and she flailed around and giggled if you tickled her belly just so. In fact, the time he was talking about, the time Old Nan had forgotten to check on her, Theon had been a little worried. He’d snuck in the nursery and peeked in the crib himself. She was fine, of course, so he’d just snuck back out and went off to shoot his bow.  
  
But he couldn’t tell Robb any of that, so he just rolled his eyes. “She’s still living and breathing, isn’t she?” Theon hopped back into his bed, pushing his damp hair back and sitting cross-legged in the middle of a nest of blankets. “Now what do you want?”  
  
“A different story,” Robb said, already halfway across the room, dripping wax all over the floor as the candle tipped precariously in his pudgy little hand. “I can’t sleep now, and I can’t read this book so good yet, but _you_ can.” He replaced the extinguished candle with his and clambered up onto the bed, plopping the book in Theon’s lap.  
  
Theon sighed resignedly as Robb made himself comfortable, nestling down onto _his_ pillow and pulling the blankets up to his chin. “Fine, but I get to pick the story,” he said, laying on his side and resting the book between them. “And you _have_ to listen the whole way through, even if you’re scared.”  
  
Robb put on a brave expression, but Theon saw the way he bit his lip a little and pulled the blankets up higher. “Yes, alright, you pick,” was all he said, giving a little nod.  
  
Theon flipped through the pages of the book, carefully casual, searching for one that would suit. His brothers, nor his sister, had never read him stories from a book, but Maron had had a bent for storytelling, as well for tormenting his brother, and had, when drunk, sometimes crept into his room and told him stories of the Grey King and his mermaid wife from whom they were descended. Theon had been eight before Dagmer had told him not all the stories of the Grey King didn’t end in bloody murder and wailing ghosts that walked the halls of Pyke.  
  
Most of the stories in Robb’s book were unfamiliar to him, Northern tales of giants and children of the forest, although he spotted one about the Rat Cook that looked suitably scary. He ran a finger across the opening words, smiling at Robb’s expression, half eager and half anxious.  
  
“Once upon a time, before the age of dragons, there was an Andal king who got it in his head that he wished to see the great Wall of the North. So-”  
  
“It wasn’t the King in the North?” Robb interrupted stridently. “Because before the dragons, Starks were Kings in the North.”  
  
“And before the dragons, the men of the Iron Islands ruled from Pyke to Harrenhal, and before that wherever a man could smell salt spray or hear the crash of waves,” Theon said, not mentioning that it hadn’t been _his_ house ruling in Harrenhal when the dragons had melted it like so much wax. “And anyway, it wasn’t the King in the North, nor the Iron King. Just some stupid Andal king. Now can I go on?”  
  
Robb nodded, wiggling a little deeper into the blankets.  
  
“Good. So he took his son and a hundred of his finest knights,” Theon and Robb exchanged a glance, smiling. Neither the North nor the Iron Islands held knighthood in particularly high regard. Theon went on, “But not his wife, who was beautiful as a sunrise, but an awful nag, and set out up the Kingsroad. It took them months and months, but finally they came to the Wall.”  
  
“Did they stop at Winterfell?” Robb blurted out, snapping his mouth shut as soon as he realized he’d interrupted again.  
  
Theon glared at him. “It doesn’t say. I suppose they probably did. And the King in the North’s little boy probably beat up the Andal king’s little boy every day until they left. Now shut it, or I’ll not read one more word.”  
  
Robb nodded again, eyes wide.  
  
“Finally, they came to the Wall, and to the castle where they’d be staying. The Nightfort.” Theon saw Robb shudder. The Nightfort was the setting of many terrifying tales, he knew. “The men of the Night’s Watch threw open the gates and welcomed the king, the prince and the knights with all the comforts of the South they could muster. There was wine and ale, cheery fires burning in every hearth, and even a fresh pony for the prince to ride ‘round the nearby countryside, should his own be worn out from the journey. The knights all settled in for a drink, while the king and his son were taken on a tour of the castle, from the lowliest cellar to the tippy-top of the Wall.” Theon grinned, adding his own flourish to the story, “Where they both took out their cocks and pissed off the side, thumbing their noses at the Others and their wights.”  
  
Robb giggled, “You made that part up! Keep going.”  
  
Theon grinned, and kept reading. “While visiting the kitchens, there was a small distraction when one of the cooks accidentally cut himself while slicing carrots. The king thought the man looked vaguely familiar, but he was a king, and kings often don’t remember things they ought, so he put it from his mind, and continued the tour. The man, you see, had once been a cook in the king’s own castle, but he’d made a dish that had displeased the queen, and so the king had banished him to the Wall, simply to end the queen’s ceaseless nagging. When the cook saw the king, he’d grown so angry his knife had slipped. But after that small mistake, his anger turned hard and cold, and as he wrapped his cut finger, the seed of a dark thought took root in his mind.”  
  
The candle flickered as a particularly strong gust of wind whistled through the chinks in the shutters, threatening to go out. Robb squirmed, ‘til only his eyes were visible, the rest buried in blankets. “Go on,” he whispered.  
  
“And once a dark thought is planted, and begins to grow, it is near impossible to root out. The cook had had children of his own, and when he saw the handsome little prince, he resolved to take the king’s son, just as his own had been taken from him. Over the next few days, the cook begged off his duties in the kitchen, claiming illness, so he could discover the young prince’s habits and find a way to snatch him. Finally, one day when the king and his knights had gone to visit Icemark to the west, the cook stole into the royal rooms, knocked the prince over the head with a mallet and drug him down to the dungeons in a burlap sack.”  
  
Theon heard Robb’s gasp, but it was just getting to the good part of the story now, so he carried on, letting his voice drop to a whisper so that the younger boy had to scoot closer to hear.  
  
“But you see, the cook had grown quite mad from the loss of his family and the isolation of the Wall. It was no longer just enough for him to steal the boy away, or even to kill him. In the cook’s twisted mind, he could only think of one way to repay the ill deed that had been done to him. He took his sharpest knives and cleavers, and he chopped the little boy up into bits, sprinkled with all sorts of herbs and seasonings. When he was done, he baked the bits into a bacon pie, to be served that night at the feast for the king’s return.” Theon glanced up at Robb, who was staring at him, not moving a muscle. “Shall I go on?”  
  
Robb’s head dipped a fraction of an inch, so Theon continued, voice soft. “When the pie was carried out, huge and steaming, the men all cheered, it smelled so wonderful. But, of course, it was for the king to have the first slice-”  
  
“D-didn’t he wonder where his son was?” Robb whispered.  
  
Theon was brought up short. He hadn’t thought of that at all. “No, he didn’t. He wasn’t a good father, like yours, he never paid much attention to the prince at all, and so he didn’t even realize his son was gone.”  
  
“Oh...” Robb’s voice was even quieter.  
  
“So, the cook and his men carried the pie to the high table, setting it before the king with a flourish. The king cut the pie himself, smacking his lips as he dished himself up a hefty portion, then passed it down the table. The cook lingered in the shadows, watching as the king and his men ate and drank, laughing and spilling wine on the table. When the king was finished with his slice of pie, he roared for more, and another slice was brought to him. The cook snuck away, satisfied in his revenge, going to the dungeons to clean up the mess he’d left behind. But no sooner did he lay a finger on his bloody cleaver, than the gods saw what he had done, and were wroth. The Stranger appeared before the cook, tall and dark and horrible, his face covered with a burial shroud-”  
  
Robb whimpered, but Theon didn’t stop, even though he felt a twinge of guilt. Surely this story was worse even than the one about the Others that Old Nan had been telling.  
  
“The Stranger slowly raised one skeletal arm, pointing a finger at the cook, and began to speak.” Theon lowered his voice to a low growl, “ ‘You, cook, have broken with the ancient law of guest right, and must be punished. I curse you for all time,’ and as the Stranger spoke, the cook began to writhe in agony, screaming as he shrank, becoming something smaller than a man, a massive white rat, doomed to live beneath the Nightfort forever, only able to feed on his own rat children.” Theon looked up at Robb, who was resolutely biting his lip, holding back his fear admirably for a child. “That’s it. The end. There’s your story, now go back to your own bed.”  
  
“I...but...” Robb’s chin jutted out stubbornly. “Fine!” He threw the covers off and leapt from the bed, snatching up his candle from Theon’s bedside table. He’d gotten no more than two steps when the shutters blew open with a crash, snuffing out the candle, the room lighting up nightmarishly with lighting as the storm battered the walls of Winterfell. Robb let out a wordless cry, dropping the candle and vaulting back into Theon’s bed, scrabbling to bury his entire body beneath the safety of the blankets.  
  
Theon’s heart was in his throat as well, but he was older, _and iron born besides_ , he told himself, so he just got up and pushed the shutters closed. He picked up the extinguished candle and tossed it on the small table before climbing back into bed. Robb was a quivering little lump beneath the blankets, and Theon knew there was no way he’d get him back into his own bed tonight.  
  
“Go on, shove over,” he said with a sigh, “Let me have some covers, Stark.” Robb moved slightly, lifting up the blankets, and Theon crawled under, ignoring the younger boy’s cold little toes on his shins. “Try and sleep.”  
  
“Theon?” Robb seemed to have recovered a bit, his voice quiet, but not all quavery with fear. “I’m supposed to stay abed at night, now that I’ve got my own room. You won’t tell my lord father or lady mother, will you?”  
  
Theon smiled...he could keep a secret. “No, I won’t tell.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> BTW, the story of the Rat Cook is actually canon. I've made up most of the details, but you can read about the canon version here: http://awoiaf.westeros.org/index.php/Rat_Cook


End file.
